A Son Unblessed And Unthanked
by Phoenix of the Air
Summary: As the city of Minas TIrith crumbles about him in the Siege, Denethor muses as he sits alone with his wounded son. One-Shot. Complete. *canonic gap-filler* Pleaser read and review. :)


_Author's Note:_

_No romance of any sort._

_Flames not appreciated._

_Constructive criticism and reviews very welcome._

_Do not own LOTR_

**_Warning: _**_Rated for Denethor's descent into madness._

_Happy reading!_

**~S~**

_During the Siege of Gondor,_

_The Citadel,_

_Minas Tirith,_

_Gondor._

The city was burning.

He sat alone on a chair in the small bedroom but lavishly decorated bedroom of his only living son. Nay, his dying son. The ground shook as the enemy through catapaults at the white city, making it tremble and fall as if in fear to the darkness. The window was open, but there was no silent. It was dark and smoky outside. And there was no sound of laughter, and no sound of the birds chirping. Instead, he could hear the screams of fear of his people, but he would not go out.

The city was burning, but he did not care.

Why should he? He dreamt of the power promised to him through the palantir. He laughed off the warnings the White Fool had given him. He wanted that power, desired it in fact.

His eldest had promised to get it for him. He travelled to the Elven City of Imladris and joined the fellowship.

His eldest went by the road and returned by the stream, dead.

In his bitterness, he took out his anger and grief on his only living son. He sent him out into the world, unthanked and unblessed. He pushed him to the limits, in a desperate attempt to regain that power he wanted so badly. And when he realized that he had let the Halfling go, who had borne the Ring of Power, his anger knew no bounds. In his anger, he had ordered, if not banished his only son to retake Osgiliath.

His son returned, wounded on a stretcher.

They had laid him on the bed of his bedroom. His armor was stripped of him, and the bloodied shirt of his son mocked him, reminding him of his grave mistake. It was as if somebody had cleared his eyes from all the darkness… and replaced it with despair.

He heard the shallow breathing of his son, and the unhealthy flush on his cheeks. The breathing seemed louder than the screams and the crash he heard outside the window.

What had he done to deserve this? How did it come to all of this?

He raised his eyes to look at his son. The chest rose slowly up and down. He may be alive, nay! He is dead! Dead and gone! He will not come back!

Denethor got up from his seat, his feet faltering. He stumbled and crashed into a table bearing a tray full of food. There was a disturbingly loud clang as the silverware crashed down on the marble floor. Denethor regarded it for a moment, the fact not sinking in, and then made for the window.

It was dark, but he could make out the armies of the orcs and the destruction of the King's… no, _his _White City. He watched the catapults of the enemy throw stones at the marble buildings with somewhat of a fascination.

Then he looked at the Mountains of Mordor and he felt revulsion. This is all the Dark Lord's fault… nay! It was not Sauron's fault. It was Gandalf's fault that it had come to this! It was Theoden's fault that he did not come to their aid! It was his people's fault that they did not prepare for the war! _It was his son's fault that he did not bring the Halfling to him!_

His son…

Denethor's vision of madness cleared for just a moment as he glanced back at the prone figure of his second born.

From an early age, he could not understand the doings of his son's mind. His firstborn was easier to read, for he worked like a true soldier. Whatever Denethor had bidden him to do; he always did it without question. Denethor was immensely satisfied.

But his youngest…

He had his own mind! Denethor could not make anything out of him. Where he told him to have no mercy, his youngest had shown mercy. Where he told him to attack, he had pulled back his men.

Denethor gave out a cry in anger.

And yet, his youngest looked at him with eyes uncannily keen. His grey eyes matched Denethor's own, capable of reading hearts and minds of men with a greater precision than Denethor himself.

"_Ever had you fashioned yourself as the kings of old…" _Denethor once mocked him.

The words came back to haunt Denethor. He had said it to him. He sneered at him.

But now those eyes were closed, the body limp and burning with the spirit that was restless to be set free. And his son was forcing it to stay, fighting to simply stay alive.

He is dead!

Denethor's eyes darted feverishly here and there, but he could not stop himself from finally resting his eyes on his son's lying form.

"My son…"

How long had he worked diligently and without complain to please his father? How long had he kept his silence as Denethor mocked him time and again?

"Faramir…"

And there, Denethor felt the world crashing about him the third time. The first time, it was when the news of his firstborn's death had reached him. The second time, it was when his youngest was brought to him, wounded. And the third time, when his eyesight suddenly became clearer and he realized what a fool he had been.

"Faramir, my son…"

He could not make anything out of his youngest, not because Faramir was different but because _he was too alike his father. _

"My beloved son…"

But Faramir still kept his identity; an image of what his father was, or could have been, had he not been ensnared by the palantir treasured deep within the vaults of the Citadel.

"Forgive me…"

Those words sounded so foreign when expelled in the air.

And even as he spoke, Sauron's hand finally hammered down on the remains of the Steward's sanity, sending him into madness. His sons were dead. And he will die also.

Denethor crumbled to the ground as if in pain, though it was Sauron's work.

He straightened again, the look of wild despair in his eyes and his body standing stiff and stern.

"Build me a pyre in my name…" Denethor whispered softly, not realizing he was alone with his ailing… nay! Dead son.

He will join his sons in death, the only escape from the despair and fear in the white city. Yes! That was the best decision. He will bring his death and with it he will take that palantir that showed him all of this.

Then there was small fear that grew within him. He glanced at his son in suspicion. He did not wish to die, only to see that his son would live on without him. Nay! His son will be with him on this pyre.

He went to the door and threw it open, frightening the servant waiting outside out of his wits.

"Have the servants build the pyre of my son and I." Denethor said coldly. "Bring wood and oil."

"But, but, sir-" The servant stammered.

"_Do you question me!" _Denethor roared. _"Go!"_

The servant fled.

When he turned back to look at his son as he stood at the doorway, the tiny part of his mind that was still sane protested that his son was still alive, his heart still beating. But the madness crushed that thought.

And so it went. The story that was famous throughout the Ages, of the Steward who tried to kill himself and his dying son that he had left to wander unthanked and unblessed. And Faramir recovered completely, he listened in absolute silence as he was told how his father burst out of the bedroom he was laid in and demanded a pyre to be built for him and his son. He was told how Beregond, loyal old Beregond, rushed to his aid and even spilt blood to protect him for what his father had in store for him.

And even as Faramir turned away from the speaker to regard the open fields of Pelennor as he stood by the marble fence of the Citadel, his heart slightly broke at the thought what his father must have faced. He felt no anger or hatred for what his father was about to do and would have done if he had not been stopped. His heart moved closer to pity and compassion, as was his wont.

And yet when the story was written down, none would know that in the last moments of his sanity, he had apologized to his son. And Faramir would not know also.

**~S~**

_Author's Note:_

_Happy reading... *snort*_

_This was something in my mind for a while. I have been reading quite a few fics on ffn that depicted Denethor as all out cruel which seemed quite ridiculous. However, Denethor did show a little bit of remorse that showed an inkling of a loving father shrouded in madness._

_Another thing, I always felt that Faramir was like a mirror of what Denethor could have been if he had found some sort of pity for others and helped others rather than sitting in the Citadel and watching battles from safety. _

_Reviews are welcome._


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